


Seasons

by olippe



Series: Time [1]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Because they are cute, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, let's talk more about how cute they are, they're just being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Every season is the season of love.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734310
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from the [sad series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406). We only have fluffy things here QWQ

On a Thursday, Paul got sick. Artie had _told_ him to wear his gloves and his scarf, and his hat, too—but, no, Paul _had_ _to know_ what it’s like to bury his hands wrist-deep in the pile of newly-shovelled snow, give away his hat because Artie’s hair “looks ridiculous in the snow”, _and_ lose his scarf to the crazy wind. Sure, he could giggle about it all through the afternoon, but the secondary snowball fight (where Art almost died) was proven to be too much. It’s all Jules’s fault, really. If he didn’t decide to yell “EGG THE SIMONS” right before dinner, they wouldn’t have to defend the honour of the House of Simon when the temperature dropped. In the end, it was Eddie who practically turned Jerry into a tiny snowman and ended the war for exchange of the young man's life. (Art, trapped between wanting to defend his friend and to prove his loyalty to his bloodline, was attacked by both sides.)

In the morning, when Art stopped by on his way to school, there was only Eddie at the front door. “Paul is dead,” he said, when Artie asked. They walked side by side for a while and parted at the junction. Eddie surrendered the letter from his mother to Art, who later handed it to their bored teacher. It’s a boring science day today.

Of course, later that day, Art came to drop school notes for Paul. Eddie, whose school time was a little shorter, was already out to play in a friend’s house (unlike Paul, he has friends—plural), so he let himself in. Mrs. Simon found him when she walked down the stairs, carrying a smelly laundry basket, and she smiled. It’s laundry day, she said. She got a day off from school, and that’s all she could do to spend it: taking care of her sick son and doing laundry.

“Paul’s in TV room. I told him to sleep in his room, but he said he wanted to see his Dad on TV. That kid.” She shook her head fondly. Then, she winked at Art and patted his arm. “Go on. I’ll make you hot chocolate.”

Artie did find Paul in the aforementioned room. The TV was on, showing an advertisement of a sugary cereal that Art didn’t like, but Paul was asleep. He curled on the orange sofa, under a pile of blankets, his head was propped on two pillows and he was hugging the oldest scatter cushion in the house—its lack of integrity probably made it the most huggable. His cheeks were flushed. Art pressed the back of his hand on Paul’s forehead, taking note on the heat. It’s gonna come down soon, he thought—his mother usually said that when he caught cold himself. So, unworried, he waltzed quietly to the other end of the seat. He sat at the edge of the cushion, careful not to sit on Paul, then dropped his school bag on the carpet.

“Hey.” Paul opened his eyes slightly, still sleepy, and waved his hand. Art smiled and waved back, which he then realised was quite a stupid thing to do. Art hunched and pulled the notes he carried out of his bag. “Science,” he said, lifting one, “English,” the other, “others.” He placed all on the coffee table.

“Thanks.” Paul’s nose was congested. He sounded funny. He pushed himself up, grunting a little, slightly wobbly from the fever and the drowsiness. “What did you do at school today?” Art flinched on his seat. Paul smirked. “You did sums alone in the classroom, didn’t you?”

Art blushed. “Shut up. It was fine.”

“I’m not saying it’s not fine, I’m saying it’s fucking weird.” Paul folded his legs, giving more room for Art to sit. He looked at the TV. When he hugged his knees, Art could see his toes, wrapped in argyle-patterned brown-and-ochre knitted socks, dancing to the quick theme song of an ending cooking show. Art tugged on the blanket to cover them. Paul noticed, but didn’t say anything about it. “My Dad’s coming up,” he said instead. “It’s a special show. Winter thing.”

Art nodded. “Oh.”

“You wanna watch with me?”

He shrugged. “I’m already here.”

“I’m dizzy.”

“Well.” Art casted a sideway glance at the TV, then at Paul. “Maybe you shouldn’t watch too much TV, then.”

He smirked again. “You sound like my Mum.”

“I’m serious. That thing is turning your head into mush.”

“Now you sound like my _Grandma._ ”

Art laughed. They’re interrupted by the approaching Mrs. Simon with a tray of hot chocolates and a plate of sugar-dusted something. She checked on Paul briefly, moaned softly about him still being very feverish, and told him to drink a lot of water once he’s done with the chocolate. They both thanked her and she left with several messages that mainly involved the availability of food in the kitchen.

Paul put his feet on the floor, about to pick up his share of the treat but was quickly stopped. “Don’t move,” Art hurriedly said. He picked up both mugs by the handle, then hesitated. “Um… Blue one or white one?”

“What are you, a child? Whichever’s fine!” He frowned, then added in a mumble. “Blue one.”

“ _Please_.”

“Fuck off.”

Art grinned and carefully placed the blue-striped mug in Paul’s hands. They busied themselves by sipping on the hot beverage, then blowing on it because it burnt their tongues, then carefully sipping it again. Mrs. Simon’s hot chocolate was spicy, with a hint of ginger and cinnamon. Art loved it, but Paul always preferred Mrs. Garfunkel’s orange-y chocolate. They briefly entertained the idea of swapping mothers before agreeing that it’s too much for just some beverage.

Art plucked one of the swirly confectioneries on the plate and held it up in front of his nose. He observed the thin, crispy treat between his fingers. It looked like him a little—spindly and twirly. But he didn’t want to say that out loud. Paul would definitely eat it up and Art would never hear the end of it. “What’s this?”

Paul squinted his eyes. “Angel Wings. Mum makes it when it's winter. The sugar dust is supposed to make it look snowy." He shrugged. "Try it.” Art did. His eyebrows danced on his forehead and he nodded merrily. Paul smiled at the little skit. “Good.”

Art took another piece and licked the sugar off his fingers. The TV was now turning into a new program and Paul took one last sip on his hot chocolate before abandoning it in his lap. The host introduced the band, and there he was; Mr. Simon, standing under what must be a shower of golden light, very glamorous. Before long, the first song burst forth swinging; joyful, sparkly, very wintery.

Art lifted the hot mug off Paul’s hands and placed it on the sofa table. Always the cautious one, Artie. No jumping into the river when it's winter, no eating ice cream when you have cold—what is he, a 40-year-old woman? Art casted a brief glance at Paul, who noticed only a little. With an inaudible sigh, he twirled his head and joined Paul at the back of the sofa, and then, with much less caution, leaned his head on Paul’s shoulder.

He felt Paul twitched a bit.

Art cleared his throat. “This is wrong.”

“Yep,” Paul answered flatly, his eyes were still glued on the TV, pointedly ignoring Art. “But you’re doing it with the right person, so.”

Art looked up. It could be the sugar, it could be the snuggly winter weather, but Art was suddenly brainless and he kissed Paul on the cheek. Paul blinked very slowly, the way all Simon men blinked. Then he pursed his lips, hiding—Art chose to believe—a little smile. “Don’t get carried away.”

“Right.”

“Well, don’t go far off, too.” Paul yanked Art’s retreating arm. He scowled at the TV—his father’s practically jumping on his feet, leading a new vivacious song—but was really aiming the glare at Art who, nervously, returned his head to Paul’s shoulder, his heart beating loudly like timpani in that great band on TV. Art was sure that Paul could hear it. And Paul could hear it. He thought it’s funny. But then again, befriending Art was always a little like walking around with a big joke on a stick.

He pulled Art’s hand and held it under the blanket. If they had to talk about it tomorrow, he’s just gonna blame it on the fever.


	2. Spring

“How difficult is it to make?”

Paul moved away to pick up the closest yellow-eyed white daisy from his seat. He twirled it between his fingers. The green stalk had funny texture. Why do people smell flowers? This flower smelled like nothing. Also, what if a dog—or worse, _some dude_ —pissed on it the night or the day before? If you put it up your nose, does that mean you’re smelling their piss?

“Suppose it’s not that hard,” he said again. Then he picked up a few more flowers, then grabbed a fistful of flowers before people saw him. He leaned back to the tree and scrutinised the flowers in his lap. Clumsily, he began braiding the stalks. It didn’t come up very horribly. He mumbled, “It didn’t _seem_ hard.”

Art, who’s lying on the grass with his jacket under his head, finally looked away from his book. “What are you _doing_?”

Paul covered Art’s eyes with his palm. “Shut up. Later. Get on with your book.”

“Fi-ine. Get your hand away from me.” Art swatted Paul’s hand, then returned to his book as per instructed. Very Artie. He had the air of a well-trained show dog.

It was a lovely Friday—it was, by all definition, _Good_ Friday. Paul brought Artie to the more Christian area of the town to observe what people actually do in such day—their mothers thought they were just going out to enjoy a rare out-of-school weekday high noon, otherwise, they'd be tied to their bedposts. Anyway, Paul ditched the plan early because he got bored; it's a very quiet day, unlike what he imagined anything with the word "Good" would be celebrated with. And Art made no protest against that decision. After all, it was a perfect day to just sit around in the park. The sun was warm, the wind was calm, and all components one might need to create a perfect day were there: the birds, the flowers, the people trying to get away from strangers as far as they can…

And a company. Suppose a date would’ve been better, but they worked with what they had. And they could always call up someone and spend the afternoon properly, if they want, probably. Hell, if Paul had brought his guitar, they could even make a house visit—if they _really_ want it, although they might make a fool out of themselves. Not gonna be the first time, anyway.

But this was fine. An Art and a book and a Paul. That’s a standard daily set, and they could live with it. No embarrassing skit that might result in embarrassing rejection, no being nervous about what to say, and no risk of having to go home to tell each other what a horrible date they’d just gone through then get laughed at. So, it’s fine. It would’ve been _finer_ if they had food, but they could live with this sort of Friday noon.

Art stole a glance at Paul. His nose was a mere inch away from the braided stalks of wildflowers, face very serious. Art tried to venture a guess of what those fingers were doing, but failed. So he turned his head away and smiled to his poetry. “Your hand’s busy, then?”

“Very, very busy,” was the slightly annoyed answer.

“Even your right hand?”

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Paul smirking a little. “Who just said ‘get your hand away from me’?”

Art winced. “Me,” he answered. “But you’re not supposed to follow through with it. Seriously, you know, you _never_ listened to me, but _this_ you listen? Out of all things…”

“Sssshhh,” Paul pressed his palm on Art’s face.

Art pushed it away, irritated. “You’re an ass.”

Paul laughed. “Whatever, you like my ass.”

They both flinched.

Paul looked at Art, whose eyes were bulging like frog’s. The joke probably crossed a line of some sort. Probably. It was not supposed to be a big deal—he didn’t think about anything when he said it. But they were kids and they were stupid and they didn’t want to talk about things or even joke about things they didn't want to talk about. He decided to change the subject. “So, you know that girl I went out with last week? Short, always wears flat shoes, _great_ cook. She gave me food from home-ec class? Wacky Cake Kathleen?”

“Absolutely. Loving that French name.”

“Shut up. Kathleen Adelman. Shut up. Anyway, we went to the park the other day and kids were making this thing, so she showed me how to make one. Hold on a minute, I’ve never done this on my own before.” Paul returned to scrutinise the chain of stalks, accelerating the movements of his fingers. Art waited, more from relief of not having to continue any fishy subject about people’s ass than from curiosity. After a while, Paul hooked both ends of the chain to one another, grunted at the challenge, then sighed when he conquered it. With proud (smug) face, he presented the craft.

Art tilted his head, very confused. “Um,” he said, hesitantly, “doesn’t look like cake.”

“It’s not cake, idiot.” Paul snatched it back, then pushed it on Art’s head. “It’s a flower crown. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” he said again, his eyeballs drifted upwards to catch glimpse of this so-called flower crown. “It’s… nice. I guess. What’s it for?” Like boys of most age, the concept of accessorising did not compute in his head.

Paul shrugged. “Who knows? But I thought it’d be interesting to know whether it’ll sink to your big forehead or float on your even bigger crazy hair. There’s my answer. Pretty satisfying.” Art raised his eyebrow. Paul grinned and dropped his head, chuckling quietly. “Okay, I just thought it’s gonna look nice on you.” He paused. Then he cleared his throat and added, “Also, I’m trying to get on your good side. Do you wanna go to the zoo with me later?”

“Sure…” Art frowned. “But why the zoo?”

“Because I planned to go with Wacky Cake Kathleen but she slapped me because apparently I wasn’t making any flower crown for her. _Is that for me, Paul?_ Um, no. Then she snatched it off my hands and threw it in the trash.”

Art laughed. “You _really_ can’t date girls, can you?”

“How was I supposed to know you’re not supposed to be honest on dates? People always said the opposite. Also, shut up. You go out with more girls than I do, and, uh, tell me, who’s your steady girlfriend again, Garfunkel? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

To counter, Art attacked Paul with his poetry book and Paul, very belligerently, pulled Art’s hair. After a series of casual kicking and punching, they both giggled and Paul patted Art’s face fondly before letting him go. “Anyway,” he said, catching his breath then grinned, “both of my hands are free now.”

Very naturally, Art got flustered and drifted his eyes elsewhere. “Yeah.”

“What did you need it for?”

Art’s attempt at not looking at Paul got desperate. “Nothing. TO PUNCH YOU! Nothing.”

Paul laughed. He offered open palms to Artie, smiling patiently. The latter, crimson and flustered, took his time before finally putting his shaky hands on it and gulped. His hands were sweaty, that must be gross. But this was nice. Holding hands with Paul was nice.

“Good boy. Now roll over and let me rub your belly.”

Art groaned. “Ugh, you really are an ass.”

Paul quickly closed his fingers around Art’s hands before he pulled away. He giggled when he really should shut up, and it upset Art even more. “Hey, I’m just kidding. Come on.” Paul leaned forward, trying to lock eyes with Art, who’s determined to stab his own eyes before letting that happen. It's endearing, and it's completely stupid. Probably it's supposed to be just completely stupid, but Art can't be _just_ completely stupid—he physically _can't,_ because he looked like a grumpy bichon frise when he's upset. He's so freaking adorable, it's inhuman.

So, in what felt like a good moment, Paul tugged down on his hands, closed his eyes, and planted a kiss on Art’s lips.

It was brief, not much longer than a slap on the face and felt almost like it. Paul pulled away and Art’s looking at him now, so he smiled. “Hello.” And just as soon as that escaped his mouth, he felt his heart sunk. “Was that too much?”

Art tried to make words audible, but he’s busy trying to grow eyes behind his head. Noticing this, Paul threw a quick glance around. “No one saw, Artie,” he ensured. “And anyway, with that flowery thing on your head, people are just gonna thought you’re a freakishly tall girl anyway.” Art didn’t reply. Paul gave up. Reluctantly, he let go of Art’s hands and sighed heavily. “Maybe we should just go home.”

Art nodded and quickly shot up like a toy mole waiting to get whacked. He trotted down the slanted path, leaving Paul far behind him. Paul didn’t protest. He didn’t call up for Art, simply caught up with him and they waited for the bus home in uncomfortable silence. Out of politeness, they still sat together in the bus, but neither exchanged pleasantries. Paul wordlessly poked Art on the shoulder when it’s their stop.

He looked miserable, Paul—or his back was, because he was walking ahead, very quickly. Anyway, Art’s pretty sure he didn’t look any better either. Art counted the houses as they walked by; four more blocks, three. Magnolias, white and pink, were in full bloom and they looked like the colours that came into his head when Paul kissed him. They’re closing to Paul’s house now, and Art wondered whether he’s gonna be invited in. Rejection is a sinister idea.

He pulled the flower crown off his head and cradled it in his hands. White daisies, yellow dandelions, little pink things he didn’t know the names of. Some of the dirt were still on the braided stalks. Did he put that on his head? He might need to get decontaminated now— _THINK OF THE GERMS_. Paul never thought of the germs. Paul was just trying to be nice, probably. And it _was_ nice, wasn’t it? And anyway, it’s the spring. It’s the time for every seed planted—a flower, a tree, a kiss—to bloom.

No, it wasn’t too much.

“Paul?”

Paul stopped and turned his heels.

Art cleared his throat. “It’s not even enough.”

A happy smile beamed on Paul’s face. And Art, a complete idiot with no self-control, added, “And I do like your ass.”

“I’m gonna get you neutered.”


	3. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referred letter can be viewed [here](https://simonandgarfunkel.tumblr.com/post/102755386347/i-love-artie-letter-paul-wrote-to-artie-while)!

_Don’t let it bother you, though._ Art read that part over and over again. Thinking that Paul wrote that because he knew that it _would_ bother Art that he hadn’t written anything since the camp began, bothered Art even more. Was it that hard to whip up _one_ stupid postcard, or something? Was he having _that much fun_?

But the letter’s here, and that’s what mattered. He’s gonna get back on him for this sometimes in the future, sure, but tonight, he’s just gonna read it, think about it, and probably compose a reply for it. Or he might just stop at the thinking.

Art folded the letter and tucked it under his pillow. He didn’t want to vocally protest on his parents’ decision to _always_ send him to camp that didn’t have Paul in it—because it would be _weird_. And he’s _really_ usually alright with it—not like he didn’t see the point of making friends that’s not Paul. But this summer was different. No summer before had ever been preceded by the two of them holding hands in the winter or kissing in the park during the spring. So the thing was, they’re still at the beginning; if they’re separated before they could find their footing, they might have to start over again when they returned. And what would that take? Art, risking heart attack again to initiate hand-holding in the upcoming autumn? Once had taken too much already, second time was not possible.

_It then got cloudy and started to rain. I tooted my horn for the passing lane._

Art lifted his face, alarmed. He twirled his head around, searching for the song. _Maybellene—_ he could name one person who’s crazy about this song enough to use it as a part of their insane surprise plot. And, really, just one person who’s crazy enough to even pull an insane surprise plot.

And surely, there, on the window, was a friendly face of the insane man, grinning and waving his hand. Art quickly shuffled out of his bed and bolted towards the door. He ducked his head, walking on his tiptoes. It’s way past bed time, but he knew that the counsellors would still be awake. Getting caught awake at night was never a problem, but getting caught with an intruder…

“Paul!” he hissed. Paul grinned widely and opened his mouth to speak, but Art tackled him and pushed his head down. “What are you doing here? How did you even get here?”

“Oh, I have friends in high places.” He started looking around. “So where’s the girl’s dorm? Did you know that girls kissed each other in their dorm in summer camps? I mean, that’s what people said. Never got a chance to see that. Or haven’t gotten around it yet, at least. Planning to. Hey, let’s go see that. Which one’s Marilyn? Hey, tell me about the others. Tell me the cute ones.”

Art knitted his eyebrows. “Um,” he mumbled. Paul’s insane. How did he _get here_? Art slumped to the grass patch on the side of his cabin, watching Paul taking in the environment. It’s actually Paul, though. It’s Paul, so probably it’s really not that surprising that he’s here. Art shook his head and got himself out of his daze. “Well, okay. Um, Marilyn—you know Marilyn. The, uh, the girl’s cabin is over there. Um… There’s, uh, Linda, Nancy, uh, Kelly, I guess… Mary-Jane, and, uh… Oh, Cheryl.”

“Cool, cool.” Paul eyed the direction that Art just pointed at. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the distance. “Any of them blonde?”

Art laughed. “What’s with you and blonde girls?”

Paul lifted his eyebrow, smirking. Without replying, he cupped Art’s jaw in his hands and pulled him into a long kiss.

This was worse than when he found Paul’s face on the window. He became light-headed, feverish, weak. He looked for Paul for support, gripping on the back of his shirt and Paul caught him before he fell. Paul let him go and smiled, then brushed his thumb over Art’s lips. “Girls,” he laughed. “What would that make you, then?”

Art dropped down his head, blushing uncontrollably. Paul giggled and pressed his lips on Art’s temple and took his hand. “Let’s go. Take me to your hiding place.”

Art swallowed and nodded. He stood up and pulled Paul’s wrist, leading him into the woods behind the cabin. The fact that Paul was there—so far away from where he’s supposed to be—had completely skipped his mind. He didn’t know what they’re gonna do, but it’s definitely going to involve kissing and that’s… that’s a good enough reason to do anything at all.

“Art,” Paul called. He tightened his grip on Art’s hand, tugged on him a little. Art didn’t slow down. Paul called again. “Artie, stop.” Paul grinned and accelerated his feet, prancing past Art and made a quick halt in front of him, then giggled. “Calm down. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’re not even wearing shoes. You’re gonna hurt yourself like that.”

Art looked down. Paul was right. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

“If you wanna take them, I can wait.”

Art considered, then shook his head. “It’s gonna take too long. And I might not find you again. I mean, it’s the woods. Woods are big.”

“Are they? Never knew that.” Paul shrugged. “You can tell me where to go and I’ll meet you there.”

Art chuckled. “Yeah, always the reasonable one, Paul. No, I don’t want that. Let’s just walk slowly. I’ll be careful.” Paul opened his mouth, but Art spoke faster. “I miss you.”

Paul smiled. He nodded. “Lead the way, then, Garfunkel.”

They walked as careful as they could through the woods. The path was covered in wet leaves from the afternoon rain, so Paul walked ahead to feel the steps with his shoes, searching for sneaky rocks or pieces of menacing twigs. They held hands, made little stops to trade little kisses, taking their time to finish the trek that lead them to the mouth of the wood.

The lake was glowing green and blue, reflecting the edge of the wood on its clear surface. It’s a bright night, with bursts of stars and silver moon that looked like a nail of a cat. Paul looked up to a stream of fireflies, bursting from the dark creases of the wood, beaming their faint neon yellow lights on Art’s hair, making him look like a nervous lamp post.

Walking ahead approaching the lake, Paul could see dark figures in the distance, making shapes that looked like canoes. They must be on the very far end of the lake, the other side from where camp activities took place. Art and his crazy excursions. He always found weird places like this.

Art sat himself on the side of the lake and dipped his feet in the lake. The water was cold— _very_ cold. Paul came up to him and crouched by his side, folded the edges of Art’s pyjama bottom, took his foot and began washing. Art grinned. “Paul Simon washing my feet. Should I expect any more surprises?”

Paul chuckled. “From me? All your life.”

The earth was caking on the soles of his feet, dried leaves and tree barks were sticking on it. They dissolved into brown fog under water. Art watched as he worked. Paul cleaned meticulously; between the toes, under the nails, in the folds of his skin. It’s a nice feeling, being treated like a royalty this way, even more by Paul. Nice, but a little unbearable because it’s just plain weird. Art placed his fingers on Paul’s knuckles and smiled. “Thank you.”

So Paul washed his hands and fished a pack of cigarette out of his jeans pocket, offering it to Art. Art cocked an eyebrow, tempted, and plucked one stick out of pack and held it between his lips. Paul patted around to find his lighter and offered the flame. Art let the spark lit the tip of his cigarette, drew in a drag, and coughed. Paul giggled. “I did that too the first time.”

“Awesome,” he coughed again, then grinning to the burning stick. “This tastes like shit.”

“I know, it’s disgusting. But it looks cool, so.” Paul snatched the cigarette from Art and took a drag. He returned it with a long exhale. Art thought that he _did_ look cool, but refused to give the acknowledgment. He gave the cigarette another try, this time taking it in carefully and letting it out slowly, almost without choking. He’s getting better.

Paul snaked his fingers and caught the tangles of Art’s hair, pulling him into a kiss. Art didn’t notice when he let go of the cigarette and it died down as it kissed the droplet of water that’s holding on to a strand of grass. No, he put all his attention to Paul—his shoulders, the back of his neck, his hair. Their lips were crushing on each other’s. Art had kept count on the number of girls he’d kissed and the number of rash encounters that happened; never had he ever felt such tenderness from a kiss so violent. Paul’s so weird. Everything about him was so weird. He pulled on Art’s hair yet it felt like a caress. He nibbled on Art’s lips yet it tasted like affection.

They’re breathless when they broke the kiss. Art tasted the tar in his own tongue and was sure that Paul would’ve had too. But it didn’t seem to bother Paul, the smell of smoke and its disgusting taste. He didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes, brown and glistening like the earth washed by the lake, were deep into Art’s, hypnotising, speaking. Art kept quiet, trying to listen.

Paul pushed Art’s chest and swallowed hard. “Artie, get on your back.”

Art’s eyes drifted away from Paul. “To the dirt?”

Paul lifted an eyebrow then burst out laughing. Art dropped his head, realising the words that came out of his mouth, and joined in with a chuckle. “God, I forgot you’re… you. Alright.” Paul took off his jacket and spread it over the grass. Art looked at it as if it’s a menacing well and he might die from the fall. Paul kneeled in front of him, brushing his lips over Art’s and returned the palm to his chest. “Get on your back.”

Paul’s voice was like a rumble in the night; startling, brewing, overwhelming. He sounded old—or, at least, older. Powerful. Art couldn’t help it. He slid backwards hesitantly. “Paul, I’m a little scared.”

“I’m sorry.” Paul kissed Art down his jaw line, his breathing got shakier. “I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want to.” Paul nuzzled on his neck, fingers slipping under Art’s shirt, sliding it up. Art caught his breath.

But Paul withdrew and placed his hand on Art’s face, cupping it as gentle as he could with his impatient arms. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, you’re my best friend, right? You tell me if there’s anything you don’t want me to do, right? Tell me if you want me to stop, okay? Promise me.”

Art looked at him, meeting his eyes. Paul didn’t have pleading eyes—never—then what was tonight? He let out another shaky breath, then nod firmly. “I promise I will knee you in the gut if I want you to stop.”

Paul crooked a smile. “I was hoping for a more diplomatic approach, but whatever floats your boat.” Paul sat up and cleared his throat. “So, can I…?”

Art nodded.

Paul gulped and carried on with the task. He’s also scared, probably. But between horny and scared, the former won by a landslide. When Art’s face popped out of the collar, puffing and blushing, the scary thoughts were gone. Art felt Paul’s lips smiling against him, then it left him, and Paul pulled his shirt over his head.

It made Art choke a little. The way Paul’s hair fluttered when his shirt left him, the way the gleaming moon poured light over it, was magical—or it felt like it; almost, at least. Paul’s hands wandered down, toying on the waistband. He pressed his ear on Art’s chest, listening to the drumming heart and noting the changing sound of the breathing when his fingers travelled to the erection inside that pants. Paul glided in to grasp it in his hands.

Art inhaled sharply. “Paul!” Quickly, Paul released him, muttering small apology. Art shook his head, squeezing his eyes then catching his breath. “No, I didn’t mean that. Sorry, I was nervous.”

“Oh.” Paul nodded. “Does that mean I can… you know? Do you want me to stop?”

Art hesitated. “Um… I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never done it before.”

“Yeah, I know. Neither have I.”

“So I’m a bit scared.”

“Yeah, I know. So am I.”

Art looked up, confused. “Wait, I thought… Do you— Don’t you wanna do it?”

Paul quickly nodded. “Of course I do! Hey, I got you half naked and jammed my hand down your pants, of course I do. But, you know,” he shrugged. “first tries are scary. But thought it’s best to get scared with your best friend, you know? Can you imagine us getting all scared like this when doing it with a girl? How embarrassing would that be?”

Art considered that. That _would_ be embarrassing. So that’s agreeable. He frowned again. “You’re thinking about doing it with a girl?”

“Not _now,_ I’m not.” Art grinned at the frantic reply. Paul giggled back. They let the laughter died down, swallowed into the evening and let soft sounds of crickets and nocturnal creatures stir the silence around them. They held their gazes down in nerves, but Art held the tip of Paul’s fingers in his grip to give him comfort—for both of them, perhaps.

Finally, Paul cleared his throat. He lifted his chin and faced Art, trying to be as brave as he could. “I’m going to take off your pants,” he declared, like a war or occupation. He cradled Art’s face gently with his left hand, brushing the cheek with his thumb. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He should’ve said something, he knew. But words had left him and his whole body was trembling—out of chill, out of fear, out of nerves; if there’s anything else to feel, he couldn’t pick it up from the bunch. Art did what he could manage: he let go of the support of his arms and lay himself down; his head sheltered from dust by the now-muddy blue jacket, and the damp, cold grass tickled his lower back. He closed his eyes when he felt Paul’s rough fingers sliding down his stomach, pulling down his pants, exposing him to the summer air. When he opened them again he could see Paul skittering out of his own pants, throwing it away like a garbage. His legs were lifted, and he could feel Paul feeling around for his entrance. Art fidgeted when he came approaching.

“I stole a car.”

Art paused his movements. “You _what_?”

Paul laughed and shook his head. “Okay, I’m just borrowing it. Okay, no, I stole it. But I’m taking it back. No, I asked if I could borrow his car, he said yes, I didn’t say when, he didn’t ask, so I took it and… I might forget to tell him that I was taking it tonight.”

Art felt a push. His heart jumped to his throat. He looked for anything to grab but finding only grass around him, he began to flail like a flightless bird. Even Paul, partially blinded by lust, had to stop and giggle, and gave him one hand to hang on to. “Did you get my letter?”

Art looked up at him, frowning. “Yeah. It arrived today.”

“Then you should’ve known I’m coming. I _told_ you I looked up for your address in the directory. Is that not another word to say ‘heyyo, I’m coming after you’?”

“Paul…” Art pursed his mouth tightly, stifling himself to numb the feeling on his backside.

“I wanted to see you.” Art could hear him hissing between his teeth. Droplets of sweats were beading on his forehead. Paul let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t know I was coming here tonight. I just thought I would, at one point; just not tonight. That’s why I didn’t tell them I was taking their car.” Paul burrowed his eyebrows in the middle of his forehead. He looked at Art as if he was made of moon. He stopped himself, lowered his face and kissed Art tenderly. “But I wanted to see you. Is that stupid?”

“It’s not stupid,” he murmured. “I wanted to see you too.”

“Then it’s likely that it’s stupid.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he grinned. Art felt another push and his face twisted in pain. “Paul, it hurts like hell.”

Paul looked down, flustered, then quickly removed himself. “Sorry. Ah, shit, I didn’t think of that. Uh… I don’t know what to do now. Artie, what should I do? Wait, no, do you think it’s gonna be easier if we do it in the lake?”

“You know that thing is not filled with oil, right?”

“Right. Sorry, I just thought, you know, liquid. Also, kinda looks the same …”

“Paul, calm down.”

“Right.” Paul groaned, ruffling his own hair, thinking. “Sorry. Horny. Can’t think. Hmmm, wet socks, laundry, Eddie… Okay, better now. Oh, right.”

“Ew, are you spitting on me?”

“Yeah, but not… like that. I just… heard people talking about this. Okay, I watched porn. Shut up. Also, you drink my spit, this is much less gross.”

Art frowned unhappily. “Easy to say, you’re not the one who’s being spat on.”

He inhaled sharply. He felt something entering him and he squirmed, then let out a little whimper. They shared a look, but neither was sure what to say. Paul waited, his eyebrows lifted in suspense. “How does it feel?”

“Um…” Art squirmed again. “Like being choked, but… in the wrong place.”

“Okay, but you don’t breathe from your ass. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No… But… it’s kinda uncomfortable. Fuck, did you spit on me again?”

Paul grinned. “Calm down. It’s called preparation, Garfunkel. My dick is bigger than my fingers.”

“Is it? I can’t tell.” Art grunted, annoyed. He snapped his eyes shut—looking at Paul doing all this felt too weird to bear. How could they sing together again after all this? How could they hang out in their bedrooms again, with doors locked, and not feel awkward about it? Art’s pretty sure neither of them would ever forget this; so, would they be able to face each other without being haunted by this?

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Paul and Art from tomorrow and yesterday, they’re not in this summer night. There’s only the two of them at that moment, gently rocking, making soft noises that spurred with the wind. For a short while, they both locked eyes and stopped to listen; it was, perhaps, the first time they heard their voices twirled into a real harmony.

Soon they closed their eyes, but in the darkness they found the summer sky above their heads: soft grey cloud colouring the deep blue sky, sprinkles of bright golden stars mirroring the shape of the lake beneath it, which in turn reflected its glow; the bright moon shining almost like the sun, the fireflies dancing to the tunes of summer, the serenade of the crickets, the rustling of the wind between the leaves that harmonised with them. They made love for the first time by the side of that still water. An act that took forever to prepare, between two nervous kids who had no idea how to do it, and ended surprisingly soon.

The two of them lay there quietly, trying to make the memory last longer, brandishing every detail they could find from the night in their minds like a stamp in time. Art tried to memorise the shade of blue of the sky, then the deep teal of the lake. Paul preserved the texture of the earth and how the pebbles crunched under his skin. They bottled the dry summer wind and kept it safe like butterfly wings in a glass box.

They remembered each other. They remembered their hands in each other’s cradle, the sound of each other’s breaths, the beating of their hearts. They would always remember.

“Do you think we’re gonna get killed?” Art mumbled. “I don’t wanna die like that.” He turned his head to see Paul, who’s facing the sky, staring at it blankly. “Do you think we should stop?”

Paul opened his mouth slowly, “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Then, what do we do?”

“Might wanna keep from doing any of this in public spaces, I guess.” Paul frowned. “Or, just be very important that they can’t afford killing us.”

“Like president?”

Paul laughed. “Or just a damn famous rock star. That can work. I would never want to beat Elvis to death. So, uh, yeah, I’m just gonna have to be a hell lot better with my guitar and you just… be you.”

Art repeated. “I just be me?”

Paul closed his eyes, smiling to the darkness. “Of course you do. You’re perfect as is.”

Art smiled. Summer was peaking, with its wandering clouds and waltzing bugs. Art turned his face and joined Paul in his venture across that sky. With their youthful eyes, they sailed past the sprinkle of stars and drifted around the moons and other worlds, drinking in the galaxies, racing with the planets.

Paul held his hand through it all.


	4. Autumn

Paul’s birthday was celebrated quietly. No friends, no family; only Artie—who, according to Paul, was practically both, if not even more. They didn’t go anywhere, didn’t do anything special. They just bought food and ate them in the schoolyard, watching students walked away in groups or in pairs while chewing on their hot dogs, observing the grumpy stomps of tired school staffs while munching crisps, and enjoying the first drizzle of falling leaves in the beginning of autumn while sucking on sweets. Paul had promised to buy Artie milkshake or root beer float or ice cream or pie, whichever he liked, when he’s done mulling over the passing year. He just wanted a company, that’s all.

Art sang for him as afternoon wound down. He sang sweet songs about sad or sappy love stories—the staple Autumn Leaves, If I Give My Heart to You, You Belong to Me, Pledging My Love. Paul joined the last one, that being the very first record he’d ever bought, of a man who died in Christmas before. Paul rested his head on Art’s shoulder when he sang the song. That was when Art realised that they were the last two people in school.

Paul sure had noticed that, too, because he soon pulled Art’s tie and get himself a birthday kiss. Art, out of impulse, tried to open his eyes a couple of times, and failed miserably. Paul, on the other hand, had completely forgotten that they might get bashed in the head if anyone found out.

Paul retreated a little, his eyes still glued on Art’s. “Say happy birthday to me.”

Art grinned. “You don’t like your birthday.”

He shrugged. “I like the extra money I got for birthdays, and I won’t complain about having cake.” He paused and Art waited. Ultimately, Paul looked down and said, with a shy smile, “I want something from you.”

The something was a blow job, which they’d never done before. Paul didn’t have to do a lot of persuading because Art, like all nice kids in the world, was taught to do as the birthday boy wished, or as your lover commanded. So, flustered and fidgety, Art did it, behind the largest tree in his own schoolyard, when the sun was setting so the leaves that hadn’t turned brown were painted orange. He wasn’t very good at it. Perhaps. But it’s not like Paul knew any different.

Art got his peach cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that evening, and Paul fed him soup because both of them were too hungry for just desserts. They walked home very slowly and was quickly forced to bed because it was a school night. After a proper reheated dinner, Eddie gave him 5 of his most valuable baseball cards as birthday gift, then begged him to ask their mother to make chocolate cake for his _real_ birthday party that was to be held the following night when his father’s home. Paul had too much on his mind to tell him to piss off, so he just nodded and yelled “CHOCOLATE” to the TV room before wobbling to his bedroom, light-headed, still thinking about that afternoon down by the schoolyard.

The following month would be Artie’s birthday.

***

Birthday was a big tradition in the Garfunkel house. Both Paul and Eddie were invited, and they enjoyed a huge lunch of roasted vegetables and fancy chicken, _plus_ two slices of Art’s birthday angel food cake with white frosting, rainbow sprinkles, and cherries. Jules showed Eddie where the cherry jar was and they spent some time alone under the kitchen counter, eating cherries until both of them threw up. Art scraped off all Jerry’s frosting when he wasn’t looking, while Paul was bombarded with questions on how Art was _really_ doing in school. They devoured baked apple chips and rice crispy treats until they’re bloated. It took them full 30 minutes to start moving again.

Before the sun set—darkness settled fast, now that it’s November—Paul walked Eddie home before trotting back to Art’s with his staying-over kit. Art’s father was helping him to build a fire in the backyard when Paul returned. Jules and Jerry were there, ready with marshmallows on sticks and a stack of crackers and chocolates. Although still full from the lunch that lasted long, they all whipped up fresh s’mores and busied themselves with the assembly until night officially shadowed them.

After long conversations over unending supply of marshmallows, everyone retreated into the house, leaving Paul and Art alone in the brisk autumn evening. The fire was still flaring high, but soon they had to turn that down and retreat as well—it’s too cold to set up a little camping site outside, so Mrs. Garfunkel made them promise to sleep in bedroom. But for now, they may watch the dancing flame as it consumed the crisp autumn air and the dried fallen leaves. Art’s head soon turned into a house of little items carried by the wind—tree barks, little bugs, little twigs… Paul giggled secretly at the stubborn brown leaf that hung at the tip of Art’s hair, clinging for life, refusing the wind. Art was too busy with his warm apple cider.

Mrs. Garfunkel had put a cinnamon stick on each of their mugs. The spicy and sweet smell fogged their heads, clouding their minds. For the moment, the indulgence lulled them to speechlessness, and they didn’t feel any need to disturb the silence anyway. Paul stirred the golden liquid absent-mindedly.

“Happy birthday,” he said suddenly. Art quickly turned his head like a surprised owl. Paul lifted the cinnamon stick off the mug, suckling on it, sampling the taste. He nodded and took a small sip, then smiled and looked into his mug. “I’ve been trying to come up with a proper gift for you.”

“You already gave me that crappy T-shirt.” He quickly added, “Which I love, by the way.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah, that’s just a cover-up gift, so I don’t care if you hate it. That’s not what I was talking about. Art…” He threw a glance at all windows available on the back side of the Garfunkel’s house. Finding the stream of light was undisturbed, Paul reached out to rest his fingers on the back of Art’s neck, and took his lips.

It was a long kiss, deeper than they’d ever shared before. Paul used just enough tongue to make it less than innocent, but not too much to get it too gross for romance. Overwhelmed Art made tiny whimpering noises that Paul wasn’t sure whether he’s moaning or crying—but he stopped anyway. Art’s eyes were hazy when they pulled away. He blinked nervously, “That was different…”

“I love you.”

Paul smiled. He plucked the brown leaf out of Art’s hair, then twigs, then tiny rocks—his hair was halfway to being a trash can. Art’s still staring at him wide-eyed. Paul tilted his head. “Did you hear me? I said I love you.”

Art made humming noise like radiator, so Paul slapped him a little. He laughed and slapped back. “Yeah, I heard that bit, thanks.” Art dropped his mug to his side, taking both of his arms to pull Paul into a hug as quick as he could. “Oh, Paul…” he said, but he didn’t finish.

Paul wasn’t waiting for its completion, either. His cider was on the ground now, spilling all over the already-wet grass. His fingers found creases of Art’s shirt, then curled around it. “I love you,” he repeated, finding breath difficult to pull. His eyes began to get teary so he tightened his grip, grappling for comfort that Art’s shoulders offered. “I love you so much, it feels like I’m going insane.”

“You can’t go insane. You’re already insane.” Art buried his nose on the back of Paul’s neck, breathing in his heat. “I love you, Paul.”

They let go of the embrace and under the shadow of crippling tree, their hands found each other again and they let it touch, repeating that dreamy winter afternoon under the blanket with the wintery tunes and hot chocolate mugs. It’s autumn now and the world was crimson and brown, but the warmth between their fingers felt like the coming of spring, pink and gentle, tender and green. Their eyes melt into each other to find that one burning summer night by the lake, and in that memory, they buried one more secret.

The crackling of dying fire lulled them in the backyard. Eventually, they smothered the burning ember and made their way into slumber. In the darkness, they lay quietly, staring at the ceiling and thanking autumn for the flavours of smoked honey and apple in kisses they shared, the smell of cinnamon in the fingers they held, and the first love they found through all the four seasons.


End file.
